My Prima Donna
by Lady Verity
Summary: Carlotta's niece comes to the Opera and meets a certain, very dashing, Phantom . . . M for later. ErikOC, light and fun with one or two possible darker moments. You know you want to, so read, review, enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, welcome to my very first Phantom story! This is set in the movieverse, and I'm not totally sure where it will end up, but enjoy!**

**Also: Reviewers will receive their very own Masquerade mask (because it's my favorite scene) and an invitation to Verity and the Phantom's masked ball (so you have an opportunity to wear it).**

Francesca Bretzini had been at the Paris Opera Populaire for six months now, and she had to admit, she was desperately homesick. She was not a particularly spectacular singer or dancer; she was an actress more than anything, and the Opera had asked her to join them because they had figured out that if one chorus girl gets the expressions right, it reflects well on all of them, even the most blank-faced.

This wasn't the first time she had been invited to work abroad, and once again her parents were prepared to flatly refuse, but this time the offer coincided with Francesca's Auntie Carlotta's Paris Tour.

"What do you mean, she no coming?" Francesca's aunt had stormed, "I am her aunt, I take care of her," she had assured, putting a protective arm around her niece. Anyway," she turned to her younger brother, Francesca's father, "Your daughter is a good girl, Paolo, not always in trouble like you were when you were nineteen, don't you remember?"

That had settled it. Francesca had been tempted to cheer for victory (Paris! The City of Light!), but instead had announced, with utmost haughty dignity, "If you will excuse me, I need to pack my trunk." She would have loved dearly to snap her fingers over her back and shout "Andiamo!" for the maid, but she knew that would have pushed it just too far.

However, when their train had pulled out of the station, she hadn't been able to resist sticking her head out the window and shouting, _"Arrivaderci, _La Scala!" and Auntie Carlotta had stuck her head out too, and said, "Paris, prepare for Carlotta and Francesca!"

Sadly, things hadn't gone as well from there. Of course Paris itself was beautiful, and so was the opera house itself . . . it was the people who were trouble. There was just . . . never anyone to talk to.

Of course there was always Aunt Carlotta, but she was always so _busy_, which was only to be expected. And the maids and most of the stagehands (except for one fellow named Buquet) were nice, but the other chorus girls were a trial. Meg Giry and Christine Daae had always been friendly, if somewhat vague, but the rest of them just had these icy looks. It was like they had all gotten a note that she hadn't, or something. And the men in the chorus did nothing but hassle the chorus girls as a whole, always waiting with another rude joke. And the rude jokes were never even very good ones; Francesca herself knew several that were much better.

It was just another day, a few people were chattering about the Opera Ghost (Francesca still wasn't clear on the story), Carlotta was threatening to quit, and Christine was talking about a strange dream she'd had recently, when all of the sudden, it was just too much for Francesca. She missed La Scala; she had grown up there, the other girls there were like her sisters, they would talk all night in the dormitories together and cheer if one of them had just come back from an evening out with an admirer. Her family lived there, and had been involved with the theatre for generations. It was home, and all in a rush she missed it so much it physically hurt.

"Madame Giry?" she asked, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. "I'm not feeling very well. Could I be excused from the rest of rehearsal?"

Francesca thought Mme. Giry looked concerned (but then, she realized, she always looked concerned), but all she said was, "Of course, child. Feel better."

Francesca walked deeper into the opera house, finally finding a little chapel. _No one ever comes here,_ she thought. And then, sinking to her knees, she finally let herself cry and cry and cry.

That is until she heard a deep voice coming out of the shadows ask, "Why so sad?"

"Who's there?" she stammered, shocked out of her crying. Hadn't she picked this place for a little venting specifically because it was deserted?

_Oh shit,_ thought Erik, Phantom of the Opera. What was he doing? He had only come to see if Christine was here for her voice lesson yet, and then he'd seen this girl, with her thick dark hair and big dark eyes, and she was just so sad he'd had to say something. But now she wanted a straight answer on who he was!

"Are you there?" Francesca asked again, getting a little angry this time. If this was one more person come to hassle her, she decided, she was finally going to take Auntie Carlotta up on her offer of having some Sicilian friends of hers, ahem, "take care of them."

"Yes," said Erik nervously; this had been so much easier with Christine, who, the first time he had spoken to her, had just said, "Angel of Music, is that you?" It had been so easy to say, "Um, yes, yes of course. Angel of music, that's me."

"I'm Erik," he said, emerging from the shadows, thinking _Oh, the hell with it,_ and figuring if she ran from the sight of him in his mask, she would probably blame his Opera Ghost alter ego, not the Angel of Music (Christine had not yet put two and two together).

Francesca turned her head to see a very handsome man with a mask on half his face. She figured he must be a stagehand; they were always stealing bits of costumes and wearing them around. She smiled. "I'm Francesca," she said. "And I'm a little upset because I'm lonely here and my aunt is making yet another empty threat to quit because Piangi sat on her favorite hat and I really can't get the act three finale right." There, she thought, that told the truth without spilling out everything to this complete stranger. _Although he _is_ cute . . . stop it! _she scolded herself._ You can fixate on that later._

_She's lonely too,_ thought Erik. And then he was shocked when she smiled again and said, "Come on, sit down if you're not busy. I could use some conversation." And it was nice, her smile. Not as nice as Christine's, but . . . _had _he ever seen Christine smile? He decided he'd think about that later, and sat down.

They talked for about an hour or so, about the Opera, about Italy, about everything, and as they talked, both of them were surprised to feel something like . . . recognition. Each found in the other one some indefinable spark that they recognized, something that fit.

As they got up to leave, Francesca for rehearsal and Erik for an appointment with one of the more discreet tailors in Paris, Erik was unsettled. He had gotten along with other people (Christine, Mme. Giry), but those relationships were all intensity. With this girl, he was just, well, he supposed he was happy. She made him laugh. And she seemed to like his company purely for its own sake; he had been the one to offer to help her with that finale she mentioned. Of course, it was nothing like what he felt for Christine, but still. He liked this. He liked her.

As for Francesca, she was ecstatic. She had finally found someone who she just seemed to click with, who made her laugh when she felt like crying. _And someone so dashing . . . enough of that!_ she had to remind herself. She was far too busy and far too far from home to think of romance. But still. He had offered to meet with her again, to help with the finale, and she had accepted. Maybe she had maybe she had made a real friend at the Opera Populaire. Maybe it would be okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello and welcome to chapter two! I know this took a while getting up, and for that I am sorry. But you lurkers had better leave some reviews, or new chapters will continue to be sluggish. Capice? Good, and remember that all offers of reviewer rewards still stand, because your Auntie Verity is generous like that. Now, on to the chapter!**

Francesca had to admit, things were looking up at the opera house. Her aunt had only threatened to quit twice that week (it was Tuesday), she would be wearing a beautiful belly-dancer costume in the new opera the theatre was putting on . . . and she also happened to have Erik.

Nearly every day they would meet for what they insisted on calling "voice lessons," although that had degenerated into a thin excuse to spend some time together and just talk. The only downside to this was that she was becoming steadily more infatuated with him, day by day. Well how could she very well not? she asked herself. It wasn't every day you met someone so mysterious, so deliciously dark, and at the same time so kind, so sweet.

Today, however, was no ordinary day. It appeared that the opera house had been sold. Two men with comical facial hair had stopped by at rehearsals.

"Splendid, splendid," Francesca heard one of them say, watching the chorus girls do their slave-girl dance for the gala, while one of them just stared, his mouth open slightly. _M__anagers,_ thought Francesca irritably. They were always such lechers, almost as bad as Buquet. These two seemed about average, though. They looked more than they should, but so far they had not tried to grab anything they shouldn't, and anyway, they were soon distracted from the scene by an argument about the difference between "junk" and "scrap metal."

As if reacting to her amusement with the new managers, a curtain chose that exact moment to fall, leaving Auntie Carlotta rather upset.

"'These things do happen?'" she was screaming. "You had better stop 'these things' from happening, or this thing does not happen!"

Francesca smiled. It was probably wrong of her to enjoy it, she knew, but her aunt was always so funny when she flew into these rages. Besides, Carlotta would never go back to La Scala. She might refuse to do a scene or two, but she would never up and go back to Italy. She had grown up with everyone there; thy would shrug her tantrums off like nothing. But here, she had confided in her niece before the opening of _La Traviatta_, here she got the red carpet. "Sometimes," she had told Francesca, "You have to act like a diva so that people treat you like one. Now where is my doggie, where is my breath spray, _andiamo,_ people, it's almost show time and I have nothing! I quit!"

The scene had quickly turned into an elaborate groveling session ("the opera is nothing without you" "you are our princess, no, our goddess" "actually, we have the Act Three costume right here . . . but of course it doesn't do you justice"), and now that her aunt was looking pacified, she was wondering if she might just slip off for a voice lesson with her masked man . . .

"There is a note," Madame Giry called out suddenly. "From the Opera Ghost." As she read out its contents, Francesca smiled. Her Erik had style, that was for sure. She had connected the dots when she couldn't find him working with the stage crew, and noticed how he always wore that mask. It didn't bother her one bit. If anything, it made it even more exciting, clandestine meetings with the infamous Phantom of the Opera . . .

But then suddenly she caught the direction of nearby Christine and Meg's conversation take a sharp turn. They had been discussing the dubious merits of the opera's foppish new patron (if Erik was a dark chocolate souffle, this Raoul character was runny rice pudding), but now Christine had started up about the Angel of Music, and Francesca's breath caught. She knew about that, too. I mean, a mysterious voice coach?, she had reasoned. Who else could it be? But still, it did bother her to know she wasn't the only one. But then, Christine had nver seen his face, she reasoned. She had. That had to be something. Francesca scurried off to meet with Erik.

"Erik!" she cried when he appeared out of the shadows in one of the empty corridors of the opera house. He was sharply dressed as usual, smiling a bit to see her. Why did he have to be so dashing like that? she wondered. It was quite distracting.

Erik was a bit unsettled as well. Francesca was still wearing her slave-girl costume, and with her dark eyes and bright smile, she looked so pretty . . . but no! Had he forgotten his plan for Christine that very night? He shouldn't, he couldn't think of Francesca that way . . .

"Your letter was brilliant, by the way," she said. "You should see these two, between their worrying Auntie Carlotta has quit for good and trying to sort out the difference between junk and scrap metal, not to mention their fear that you're out to bankrupt them, I think they've forgotten they own a theatre. I swear I heard one of them muttering to the other 'I thought we were going into restaurant management . . .'." she laughed.

Erik's face split into a wicked grin; it was so good to share his opera-haunting schemes with someone. "Ah, fools. Well, I suppose we'll just have to get them accustomed to life in the theatre, won't we?"

Francesca was trying not to look too pleased that he had said "we," and wondering what would happen if she kissed him right then and there, but managed to respond, "I suppose so, but nothing too bad, at least at first. Give them a nice false sense of security," she joked. All Erik ever really did were elaborate threats and minor sabotage, and those were fun.

"Here," Erik, said, suddenly remembering and pulling a box of chocolate truffles from his cape; they had talked about chocolate the other day. "You cannot say you've lived in Paris until you have tried one of these."

The chocolate was exquisite, rich and dark. Francesca closed her eyes and sighed. Then she opened them and smiled. "I have lived in Paris," she said. Then suddenly she realized she was still wearing her slave-girl outfit. "Damnit! I've got to get this back to the costume mistress or she'll kill me!" Then, brave as she dared, she grabbed Erik in a quick, tight hug. "Thank you so much for the chocolates!" and she ran off, blushing, and marveling at how her whole body suddenly felt electrified. She was crazy about him, she had to admit. But still, who'd have thought one little hug could make her feel like that?

Meanwhile, Erik was feeling wistful. He had to admit it: tonight, he might finally win over Christine, his one, his only. But, if that happened . . . he thought of Francesca. Whatever happened with Christine, he'd have to keep in touch with her. Because, otherwise, he had to admit . . . he'd miss her.


	3. Chapter 3

**An Important Message, to lurkers from Verity: LEAVE A FEW REVIEWS, WHY DON'T YOU? I KNOW YOU'RE THERE. Seriously, folks. I have Reader Traffic tracking, you know, and it's not very inspiring not to hear from you. I AM a nice person, I promise, and would love some feedback. But enough of my ranting. On with the story!**

**Note: There is a dark moment or two this chapter (although I upped the rating mostly because I now know where I'm going with this story, and I'll need it).**

The next day at their usual voice lessons, neither Erik or Fracesca felt at ease. Francesca's trouble had began the moment she had left to find the costume mistress.

"Where are you off to, little Francesca?" the voice, more like a hoarse growl, had made Francesca jump. She turned to see, though, it was just Buquet, lurking in the shadows as usual.

"Not now, Joseph," she said easily. She had come to the conclusion that Buquet was essentially a harmless irritant, like gnats or chalky stage makeup. She was familiar with his type: a little grabby, a little slimy, but at the end of the day nothing to worry about. "I have to get this costume back to Madame, or she will kill me and that would be a whole messy unpleasantness that would not be good for anyone."

"Why not take it off right here?" Buquet growled out with a leer.

Oh, Lord, thought Francesca, I was in such a good mood from talking to Erik, why do I have to put up with this man's ridiculousness? "Go away, Joseph, I don't have time for this."

"No, I think you do," Buquet rasped, moving close enough that Francesca could smell the stink of bad, cheap liquor and mean, sullen resentment that followed him like a shadow. Suddenly Francesca found he was trying to back her against a wall. This was starting to trouble her, in a more-than-a-regular-annoyance-but-rather-something-legitimately-frightening way.

"I really have to go," she tried again, trying to shift out of his way. Suddenly he had grabbed her wrists, pinning them behind her with a grip so tight it cut off circulation, and his slimy mouth was on her face. He had clearly been aiming for her mouth, but had landed on a nostril and didn't seem to notice.

Francesca struggled to shift away from his grasp, but it was useless, he was just too big, when suddenly she remembered something. Buquet was just starting to fumble with his own outer garments, loosening his grasp on her wrists ever so slightly, when she jabbed a quick, well-aimed blow with her knee between his legs.

It worked. Buquet reeled back in pain. "Little tramp!" he roared, aiming blows wildly in her general direction. Just as Francesca ducked away, one of them connected, hard at the edge of her face. Trying to ignore the sting of pain, she ran all the way back to the dormitories, tears running down her face before she noticed they were there.

For a quarter of an hour she just sat on her narrow bed, offering up silent prayers of thanks that years in theatre had taught her how to fight, and letting her face wash over with tears.

It wasn't just the fright of the experience, she supposed, it was also the fact that she saw Buquet almost every day, and she hadn't thought to be afraid of him before, and now she would be, every time. _I'll tell Auntie Carlotta._ The thought just slid into her mind. Of course! Auntie Carlotta would know what to do, maybe get him fired, those managers did whatever she asked. The very thought cheered her slightly. Although still . . . until then, he was probably still mad at her . . . but it would be okay. She could fight it out for the few weeks it took to fire a stagehand.

And so Francesca spent the night of the gala in an anxious state, trying to find a moment that never came when her aunt wasn't surrounded by admirers reassuring her that Christine Daae could never replace her (although Francesca did smile at the small wink her aunt gave her behind her diva-tears).

As for Erik? What went wrong for him was a little less obvious to define.

His plan had been working perfectly. Christine sang magnificently, and although their was an unfortunate moment where he'd had to lock that milky fellow out of her dressing room, the trick mirror he'd installed worked beautifully. They had reached his lair, it was all just as he'd imagined . . . and then she'd fainted.

Books mislead you, Erik thought as he wondered what to do with the passed-out body on his hands, there is nothing romantic about fainting. All it did was leave this incredibly awkward . . . _body_ lying around the place. In fact, he felt somehow crushed. He had hoped they would talk, even on the boat ride over he had been a little disappointed that all she wanted to do was sing. He had hoped he might see what her laugh was like. At the thought of laughter, a voice like a hot poker whispered in his head, _Francesca wouldn't have fainted. She would have had something to say. _Francesca? he shook the thought away. What did she have to do with anything?

And even once Christine awoke, she didn't smile at him or ask questions, no, she decided to rip his mask off. Erik was furious at having his face seen, but more than that at Christine's phenomenal stupidity. Exactly how difficult was it to compute that if a man wore a mask, he didn't want to be seen? And she hadn't even asked his permission!

Erik had written notes to the managers, because he wanted to keep his word to Christine about helping her career, but all in all, it was a very disillusioned Phantom of the Opera who went to meet an anxious Francesca the morning after the gala.

"Hello," Francesca had murmured as he slipped into the room out of nowhere. She hadn't slept well that night, laying awake with worry about explaining the incident to her aunt, and about what would happen next.

"Francesca," Erik interjected, odd for him, Francesca thought, before she'd had a chance to finish her sentence. "I'm going to ask you a question, and answer me honestly: what do you think of Christine Daae?"

Don't say anything stupid, thought Francesca, wishing his gaze was just a little less hypnotic, you knew he might mention her, he can't know how you feel, just tell him the truth (only minus the jealousy) . . .

"She's nice," she finally came up with. "She has a beautiful singing voice, much better than mine. Maybe not the brightest, but nice."

For some reason this answer brought Erik a crashing wave of relief, the wave hitting Francesca too as she realized she hadn't given away too much, or offended him with the "not the brightest" comment.

Suddenly, Erik noticed a huge purple bruise along the very edge of Francesca's face, and similar ones on her wrists. He also saw for the first time how pale she looked, with dark circles under her eyes like she hadn't slept, or had been worrying, or both. "Who did this to you?" he demanded.

Francesca knew she shouldn't tell him, it would only upset him (and if it didn't her heart would break), and she was already going to take care of it. But his tone was so ferce she blurted out, "Buquet. I . . . I was going to put my costume costume back, and he saw me and tried to . . . I stopped him," she added, lifting her chin up. "I stopped him, and that's when he hit me." She hovered there for a moment, looking proud and brave, and then she burst into tears.

Erik wrapped his strong arms around her, stroking her hair clumsily, as a curtain of red descended behind his eyes. All his half-formed doubts about Christine had disappeared, and in their place was a savage thirst to find the man who did this to Francesca and kill him, savoring each moment as the life drained from his eyes. He shuddered, not knowing that he, monster or no, was capable of this kind of rage.

Francesca shivered a little too, but for different reasons. For a moment she had forgotten precisely why she was upset, or even that anything was bothering her. For a moment all she was aware of was Erik's strong arms around her, his hand on her head, her head against his hard chest. She shivered because for a moment things felt right. Because here, in this mad, strange, dangerous opera house, in the arms of the very phantom who haunted it, she felt safe.

That night, the night the opera playing was light and comic and subject to some unknown casting controversies, would go down in the minds of everyone as one of the most gruesome, disastrous nights in the history of the Opera Populaire. That is, in the minds of everyone but two people. To two inhabitants of the opera, who stood for a moment in an empty room in each others' arms that day, fighting against sadness and struggling with fury, to those two people, that night would come to mean something quite different.


	4. Chapter 4

**Don't worry, not a ranting Verity this time, just welcome to chapter 4! Verity (who is struggling with the habit of talking about herself in the third person; please have patience) is especially excited about this chapter, because she's had the idea for it in her head since chapter one, so she hopes you all enjoy it!**

**Also: Reviewers will receive tickets to the Opera Populaire. They're excellent seats . . . lovely Box Five . . . Now on to the story!**

"Shame, shame, shame!" As she heard those words coming from onstage in a bouncy little tune, Francesca noticed that she was feeling much better than earlier that day, even if she did still jump at small noises.

Francesca had a very small part in that evening's opera, just a little bit in Act Three, which gave her plenty of time to hang around backstage (always in a well-lit, crowded area, though, because there was still Buquet running around, and just as she went backstage he had waved the most evil-looking knife she'd ever scene in her face and said, "Don't think this is over, tramp") and think. She still got the most ridiculous silly grin whenever she thought of how Erik had wrapped his arms around her that afternoon (see, there it goes again, and one of the dancers is giving you a funny look, she thought. Ah well, they'd just be jealous if they knew). After the show, she intended to tell her Aunt Carlotta straight away about Buquet, and she knew she would be in a good mood and listen well, because the managers had been showering her with gifts and praise (including an adorable new puppy, making it a matched set) all afternoon, and because she had won some silly little feud with Christine Daae. So things would be fine, she told herself, even if she did jump three feet in the air whenever someone so much as bumped her shoulder. The feeling you that something big is about to happen is just silly, she continued in her head in her mother's practical voice, now try to relax and wait for your cue. Think of Erik . . . ah, now it was easy to relax, she just had to remember about her cue . . .

Erik, meanwhile, was far from relaxed. He was pacing frantically in some secret corner of the opera house, trying desperately to quell the anger that had been in him since this afternoon. Only then, the moment the curtain rose, it wasn't so much anger, as ice-cold resolve. He couldn't even tell what had caused the shift as he headed towards the stage with a new determination.

First a quick stop backstage, for Christine's sake- a promise is a promise, and it was just some trick voice spray- then onto the rafters for the main event.

There he was, the bastard. The Phantom edged closer and closer still, relishing the fear in the grimy little man's piggy eyes until finally he was upon him. Just as he slipped the noose around his neck, Buquet choked out a single word. "What-"

"Francesca," he hissed, suddenly remembering something else, "and any others, you pig." Then, watching the understanding dawn in his eyes, pulled the noose tighter and let it drop.

_Damnit!_ Thought Erik when he heard the first scream. He should have realized the body would land in the middle of the stage. He'd only meant to kill the man, not cause bloody pandemonium. And what would Francesca think when she saw this? And Christine? Just because she had disappointed him that night, had he really given up on her?

As for Francesca, she was a little irritated with Erik for sabotaging her aunt's performance- but ah, Auntie Carlotta hated _Il Mutto _anyway, preferring roles where she got a death scene. And then when the body dropped . . . though she felt guilty about it, her first emotion was not unlike relief. He was really gone, he'd never try to hurt her or wave knives at her or anything like that. She was safe. Second emotion: Erik had killed him. Because of her. That was . . . . extraordinary. It was a little scary, but then, she knew he didn't have an explosive, violent temper, at least not to the point of physically hurting someone, so this must have been a little different. She'd seen him angry before, at people who stood in the way of his Phantoming, at Christine, even at her once or twice, but he had always just yelled for a minute or disappeared into his lair for a while and come out calmed down. What he was saying with this, she reasoned, was: _I will do anything to protect you. I would kill for you. Anything to keep you safe. _And that was extraordinary.

Suddenly Francesca noticed she was alone backstage in her pondering. She had to find Erik. She caught him just by the stairs, about o head to the roof for some brooding. "Erik! Erik, wait!"

He turned. It was Francesca. _She must think I'm a monster._

"Erik, I, uh . . ." Why couldn't she be more articulate, she wondered, and of all people, of all moments? "Well it's always wrong to kill someone, and you shouldn't have, but . . . I know why you did. And- for the sentiment, not the thing, mind you - thank you. Thank you so much."

The Phantom of the Opera was gobsmacked. But somehow he managed to get out, "Of course," and then, "I would say 'you're welcome,' but somehow it doesn't seem . . . quite appropriate."

That did it. It broke the intensity of the moment, and they both laughed. Then, Francesca, "I've got an idea. Wait here for a moment, I'll be right back."

As she rummaged through her trunk for what she was looking for, she silently prayed, _Please let him still be there when I get back. Please don't let him have disappeared. Please don't let this be some Phantom thing- you know, "defending chorus girls and then swooping off mysteriously into the night."_

But he was there. And so, with a grin, she pulled out what she had been rummaging for: A black-and-gold butterfly mask, from Venice at Carnival. She pulled it onto her face. "Let's go out!"

Erik was speechless. "See?" she continued, "We can just say it's a theatre tradition to wear our masks after a show." Oh, she hoped he liked it, she hoped it didn't bother him.

Erik took her hand, kissed it very gently (Francesca thought she'd faint from trying not to swoon), and said "Come on. You look lovely tonight." But then, he just couldn't help but ask, "Why haven't you ever tried to take off my mask?"

And Francesca answered honestly, with no idea what it meant to him, "It didn't seem like any of my business." She didn't add that she had wondered about it until Christine told everyone how he was injured under the mask, but still. "Now, come on! I know a great cafe."

The owner of the cafe had tried to take off Francesca's mask at first, thinking he was being cute and joking, but a glare from Erik put a quick end to that. After that, they sipped their onion soup, ate their pastries, and enjoyed each other's company in peace, not talking as much as usual, but not needing to either.

As they were walking home, Francesca kept thinking, _what if I kissed him, right now? Just to see what it would be like. As a thank-you. That's a good excuse . . ._

While Erik thought, _it didn't seem like any of her business. She wore the mask. But Christine . . . but Francesca looks so beautiful tonight . . . _

Neither could be quit sure who started it, but suddenly they were wrapped around each other, he was kissing her fiercely, gloved hands buried in her thick dark hair, and she was responding, clinging to him, one hand tracing the outline of his mask, the other wrapped around his neck.

Eventually they had to break apart, as they were standing in the street, and Erik pressed her hand one more to his lips before whispering, "Good night," and disappearing into the shadows.

As Erik headed back to his lair, he was confused. Of course he was not ignorant of the pleasures of the flesh, and had at times visited certain discreet houses where no questions were asked of a masked man, but this was . . . different. Kissing her had _meant _something, it wasn't just about pleasure. But if he loved Christine, how could he have felt the way he did? The Phantom knew it was going to be a very long night.

And as for Francesca, though no one cheered for her when she got back to the dormitories, though she wasn't up all night giggling about her adventures, and though she expected that, Francesca couldn't help but smile as she waltzed into her room from what had been the best night she had ever had.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey all, happy almost-Halloween! Yes, this chapter is longer than usual, and Verity (as I said, humor her about the third-person thing) hopes you like it. Also, just out of curiosity: what are you all going as for Halloween? I am going as the incomparable maker of the meat pies, the one and only Mrs. Lovett! Now if only I could find my darling Sweeney . . . (for those of you who haven't seen my profile yet, yeah, I love Sweeney Todd. No one can make a murderous barber so dashing like my beloved Johnny Depp can, and the music is brilliant). Now enough of silly Verity's ranting about a totally different fan universe, on with the story!**

**Also: My opera ticket offer still stands!**

Francesca woke up late the next morning; the theatre had agreed to shut things down for a week to work on damage control from the previous night's fiasco (the managers were still reeling to think of a week without ticket sales).

She lay in bed for a moment, contemplating the plaster ceiling of her tiny, though mercifully private, room, and mulling over the events of last night. A slow grin spread across her face.

No one had ever kissed her like that before. There had been a few shy pecks backstage with a boy named Antonio back home, but nothing like that, not ever. And even after all of her kissing-Erik fantasies, she had to admit that the real thing was _much _better. In that moment when they broke apart (she blushed to think it), he could have said or done _anything_ to her, she was so deep under his spell. She blushed again, realizing she still was.

Well, enough fantasizing, she thought, sitting up a little, time to get up. You have plenty of free time ahead of yourself, and maybe tonight you'll see Erik again . . . Suddenly she stopped, with the distinct and sudden impression that something in the room was different than usual.

Her eyes scanned the room with its clean, whitewashed walls covered in posters for the operas Francesca had performed in (five so far): tapestry blanket from home on the bed, same as ever, dark red leather trunk at the foot of the bed, smallish window looking onto the square, little vanity table . . . Yes! There it was!

On the vanity table someone had propped up a letter in a heavy parchment envelope with her name on it, and left a single rose. It really was beautiful, Francesca thought as she twirled the stem between her fingers, not red or white or pink, though those were all lovely too, but a golden color, just starting to open. She put it down and picked up the letter, whose red skull-shaped seal confirmed her suspicions. Eagerly, she tore it open.

_My dear Francesca,_

_Please excuse the morbid stationary, my selections are sadly limited. I am writing to inform you that, regrettably, urgent business has called me away, and I will be out of the country for the next several months (although given the current hysteria at the theatre, it might not be a bad idea for me to stay out of the public eye for a while). My first stop is in the Netherlands, but I will soon after be visiting Spain. If you wish to contact me, just give any letters to Madame Giry, she will know where to direct them (seal the letters first; she can be nosy). I have to deliver this quickly before I leave for my train, but I also wanted to tell you that last night was perhaps the most remarkable evening I have had since I first happened upon this opera house.(Oh, and about our plan to terrify the Messrs. Andre and Firman, they may already be terrified enough; I overheard them say to a reporter that they believe Buquet's death was another step in the Opera Ghost's elaborate plan to drive them to financial ruin at any cost)_

_I remain, your obedient servant,_

_Erik_

At the very bottom there was what looked like a postscript that had been hastily crossed out; the only letters legible were "mi" towards the beginning, and a"y" as the last letter. Francesca put the letter next to her heart, feeling curiously happy and sad at the same time. Sad, of course, because Erik would be leaving the opera for a few months and she would miss him. But also happy because, well, he had given her a golden rose and said their night out was remarkable and she would write to him while he was away and it was all just _terribly_ romantic.

_I sound as bad as Christine and Meg carrying on about that viscount, _she thought with a laugh. _I really am hopeless. Ah, well. No going back now._

As if she had heard Francesca think her name, it was this exact moment that Christine Daae knocked very quietly on the dormitory door. "Francesca? It's me, Christine."

"Christine?" That was odd. She and Christine had always been friendly, but never close or anything. She slipped on a dressing gown and opened the door.

"Francesca! Nice to see you. Raoul and I- er, that is, the Viscount de Chagny- would like to ask you to lunch today, at Chez Henri, at one o' clock? We're worried how your aunt will deal with thing, and we thought you could tell us . . ."

"I'd love to," she said, wondering what one wore to lunch with a viscount, anyway. Still, she couldn't very well say no, even if she would have preferred some time on her own to having lunch with the well-meaning but vacant couple.

"Great! I'll go tell Raoul! He's wearing a new cravat specially for the occasion! But then, he does throw them out after he's worn them once . . ." she walked off, still muttering about Raoul's excessive amount of neckwear.

This left Francesca wondering again: _what the bloody hell am I supposed to wear? It's probably best to look immensely respectable, above all. Do I have anything that looks immensely respectable?_

It was beginning to look like the answer was no. She had always favored bright, rich colors, claret and royal blue, cut dramatically, much too vibrant. She also had a number of pretty linen dresses in light pinks and pale yellows that were much too casual. Finally, though, she remembered a dress her mother had bought her before she left, saying she needed a dress in which to meet dull, important people, dukes and the like. It was dark green with a square neck, trimmed in black lace. It was pretty and flattering and discreet and unquestionably respectable. Perfect.

Once she arrived at the restaurant, Francesca saw she had aimed for the right look. Chez Henri was staid, to say the least, and full of ancient, short-tempered aristocrats. Francesca, Christine, and Raoul were the youngest people there by at least forty years. An obsequious waiter took their orders and the three of them started to talk.

As the conversation went on, Francesca grew steadily more irritated with her dining companions. It had started out fine, the couple fretting about Carlotta and her temper ("Don't worry, I'll talk to her"), and wondering about the future of the opera house. However, the conversation had since taken a sharp nose dive to the topic of "the opera ghost." These two thought Buquet's death was _a plot to further Christie's career._ Francesca had wondered if they were joking at first. Of all the ridiculous ideas! How would killing a stagehand further anyone's career, except maybe that of the stagehand in the position under him? It was absurd. Francesca had tried to change he subject ("read any good books lately?" "That reminds me, I have the best joke . . ." etc.) but they proceeded to ignore her completely

It was when they started in on "his evil red eyes, clearly he's in league with the devil" (Raoul had said that) that Francesca snapped. Sometimes enough is simply enough.

"Raoul, Christine," she addressed them, standing and drawing herself to her full height, "I do not know about this evil ghost business, and frankly I do not care! There are a hundred reasons someone would want to kill Buquet, and you have no idea why this man did it! You invite me here as your guest and then you ignore me with your morbid fixation on something you do not even fully understand! I have tried to be a polite and gracious guest and you have snubbed me! And _you_," she turned to the waiter, just passing by, "you have kept us waiting for our overpriced filet of sole for over an hour without so much as refilling our water glasses! This man is a viscount, and my friend and I are celebrated performers! I will not be treated like this! I am leaving! Christine, thank you for the invitation, but I must be going."

"Okay," said Christine numbly. "No problem." She and the viscount both seemed in a state of shock, not realizing the Bretzini temper had been passed down to Francesca.

And as for Francesca herself, she left with her head held high, feeling exhilarated, because sometimes it just felt good to say what you think. And she was not embarrassed for a moment, because, as she reminded herself, she was Francesca Bretzini, niece of Carlotta, and knew enough to never be ashamed of standing up for yourself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, sorry it took so ridiculously long to get this chapter up. Forgive Verity, please? This chapter has something new with a lot of letter-writing, so pretty please review to let me know if it works. Other than that, enjoy!**

_My Dear Erik,_

_ How is Switzerland? Is the chalet as nice as you hoped? (You know, for a mysterious figure seldom seen outside the Opera House, you do have a lot of interest in places around the world- I should show you Italy) This is not to say I have entirely forgiven you for leaving me here to deal with my aunt's tantrums, not to mention that insufferable fop Raoul, who seems to be around constantly now, even at rehearsals. Oh, and did I tell you, we had an exorcism here the other day, to rid the theatre of your presence. Raoul, Firman, and Andre brought in a priest to spread salt around and chant a bit in Latin. You should be extremely flattered. That's really all the news here. Oh, and thank you so much for the castanets from Spain! They're lovely, and I've managed to irritate the entire opera house clicking them around, which is excellent fun. (no one was irritated by the shawl you sent from the Netherlands, or the necklace from Greece, but I love them anyway)_

_Faithfully yours,_

_Francesca_

Francesca smiled to herself, especially at the sentence about showing Erik Italy (it had become a favorite daydream of hers lately), as she sealed the letter to Erik, with royal blue wax this time around her seal, the letter F in calligraphy. She had decided to use a different color wax for every letter she sent to Erik, just to pass the time. Though things hadn't been terrible at the opera house the past few weeks, what with things finally settling down after Buquet's death, a highly amusing exorcism, and the way the story of her explosion at Chez Henri had spread the theatre like wildfire, earning her an odd but not unpleasant sort of respect, she missed him terribly. Every day it seemed like, there would be something funny she would want to tell him, or she would hear some chorus girl giggling about her latest suitor and she would think of him and wonder how whoever the other girl as talking about could possibly measure up, or she would spend the whole day looking forward to voice lessons. And always, always, always, her heart would sink when she remembered he wasn't there. she But still, regular letters from Erik, sometimes with exotic gifts as well. If Francesca had had any doubt that she loved him, that she was absolutely crazy about him and couldn't stop if she tried, these letters, the fact that anywhere he went in the world he would still think of her, be there for her, erased them all. Christine had received exactly one letter, the day after he left, and she had refused to open it. Francesca knew it was wrong of her, but that Christine and Erik weren't exchanging letters had her roaring with triumph. Besides, Christine seemed perfectly content with her fop, anyway. Francesca ran off to deliver the letter to Madame Giry.

_My Dear Francesca,_

_ Switzerland is lovely. You would love the way the mountains look in the very early morning, although I cannot recommend the local pastime of skiing (not that I fell when I tried it. I never fall. I just did not enjoy myself, is all). I am very near the border Switzerland shares with your native land, and I'm sure you would love it here. Someday I will show you everywhere I have written to you about. I am deeply honored to hear about the exorcism. Actually, I have largely sorted out the business I am traveling for, and may be returning in a few weeks, and I do hope I will be able to get into the theatre, now that I have been warded off. Remember that I am truly sorry I cannot be there to keep your melodramatic relations or the "insufferable fop" in check. You know I would . . ._

_I remain, your obedient servant,_

_Erik_

Erik paced impatiently through his rented chalet, pondering the question he had taken this trip to struggle with in peace. He hated to whittle something so major into just three words, but there thy were: Francesca or Christine? He was writing a new opera, _Don Juan Triumphant, _in the hopes that it would help him sort things out. The opera was shaping up to be his best work yet, but his mind was still muddled. On the one hand, he had wanted Christine, fought for her, hoped for her, for years. And even if she wasn't the sharpest, maybe it would be wrong of him to leave her, especially since she was an orphan and all. Who else did she have? That ridiculous viscount? It might be cruel, immoral of him to leave someone so naive to face the world; as he said, who else did she have? On the other hand . . . he just couldn't stop thinking of Francesca. Wherever he went, something would make him think "oh, Francesca would love that" or "if Francesca were here I know what she'd say" or if he saw two lovers, it disturbed him how often now, instead of fantasizing about Christine, he would think of his kiss with Francesca outside the opera house.

Erik had actually started writing music when he found in his lair, at the age of about ten, an old book called _It's Easy to Write Music!_. One trick the book had recommended was to think of each piece of work as a person. "Maybe someone you know," the book advised, "or perhaps someone entirely new! Be creative!" Erik would not admit even under the most refined of tortures that he used this technique even to this day. When he was younger he had written a series of comedies, which, regardless of the plot, were in his mind always about a couple named Gertrude and Wendell, a tall, skinny, frizzy-haired woman, and a short round man with an enormous moustache, both of whom laughed a lot and sat in big armchairs. Later it seemed that everything he wrote was about Christine. With this new opera, however, the music clearly fell into two categories: the high, mournful, slow ballads were clearly Christine, and the fast, bright, full chorus numbers were Francesca. But there was one song he couldn't place. It was his masterpiece, at turns sad and joyous and lost and reassured. It did not require any particularly special vocal talents- no piercing highs or swinging lows- but whoever sang this song needed passion; they needed to _mean_ it.

As Erik wrote on, he became convinced that the girl this song was for was the one he loved, that this was the key he needed to crack. At first he was honestly clueless; all he knew was that he had written this song about the girl he loved. But now he was getting certain he had to head back to Paris and sort this out in person, because the more he thought about it, the more he believed that when he thought of the girl in his song, her name should be Christine, but also, the more he felt that her name _is_ Francesca.


	7. Chapter 7

**Gah! You readers and your non-reviewing of last chapter are really frustrating poor Verity! In fact, she is considering taking the story hostage . . . nah, she wouldn't do that to you. And here's new chapter, the longest yet, and I hope you enjoy it. But there WILL be season passes to box five for reviewers . . . just saying . . . anyway, on to the story!**

A masquerade ball. Messrs. Andre and Firman grinned at each other. They had forgotten the masquerade was a long-standing tradition of the opera house, and it seemed like now was a perfect time for it. The Opera Populaire had more to it than just a masked phantom! It had . . . other masked people. But still, the pageantry, the grandeur, the opportunity to meet wealthy people who would buy season tickets for the opera! It was all so much more exciting than the junk (scrap metal) business, and the two managers twirled their moustaches in anticipation. Now the question was, what to wear?

That was a thought that was never far from the mind of the Viscount de Chagny. In fact, it was perhaps his favorite (if only by default; he realized he couldn't remember ever asking himself much else) question. He had of course immediately decided against wearing an actual mask; to deny the world the sight of his glorious face would be a crime! Now, he had been strongly leaning towards his new, embroidered powder-blue jacket, with a plum-colored waistcoat and perhaps a red satin cravat (fresh from the box of course; the thought of wearing _used_ cravats had always made him shudder, although he supposed some impoverished types had to. If only, he thought, I could remember what "impoverished" meant). But when he'd asked Christine she'd seemed to think it was undignified, so he was probably going with a military jacket in dark blue. Pity. At least, he reminded himself, there were still cravats waiting in shops all over Paris to be chosen by him for this ball.

The whole opera house, in the day or two preceding it, seemed to have caught masquerade fever. Christine stopped prattling about Raoul and the Angel of Music long enough to learn a new dance step from Meg. Carlotta ordered, rejected, and then changed her mind and decided to keep the same dress no less than seven different times. Even Madame Giry was seen folding and unfolding an old black lace fan with a dreamy smile on her face.

Francesca, for one, was thrilled. A masquerade ball! Exciting and dramatic! And yes, she knew that seeing all those masks was bound to remind her of one particular masked man, but you know what, she thought, frustrated, if he was too busy gallivanting around Europe to be here with her, she would go on her own and have a wonderful time! He would just see!

As a matter of fact, the Phantom was not too busy. In fact, he was getting ready for the ball with as much fervor as anyone else. He had decided it would be a perfect site to clear the air, reintroduce himself to the opera house, and speak to Christine. He had decided, and although it left him with a heavy heart, it was the right thing to do. He would go with Christine. Francesca deserved better, had a whole bright life ahead of her that shouldn't be cluttered with darkness and phantoms, and Christine needed his protection. It was the right thing to do. And yet, as he prepared his red death costume and marveled at how easy it had been to get that mirror maze installed under the ballroom ("Delivery of forty-three full-length mirrors?" "Uh, yes, they're for the opera house. For, uh, Nutcracker. And I do apologize for the mask, but I'm onstage in a minute." "No trouble, sir, just sign here"), he wondered why doing the right thing was making him so sad.

The night of the ball was one of those cool, clear, perfect nights that never happen, except that night it did. Francesca stood outside the opera house for a moment, looking up at a million stars, occasionally interspersed by stunning fireworks. She was wearing a ball gown she truly loved, off the shoulders with a full, flowing skirt, in a red so bright and rich it defined the color. She had added her mask from Venice and small, exquisitely made gold earrings her mother had given her, and done her hair up, and for the first time since coming to the Opera Populaire, she felt . . . pretty. She took a deep breath and went inside.

What a sight! The ballroom was a shining gold masterpiece, filled with bright, happy people in the most remarkable costumes, and a twenty-seven piece orchestra was playing an elegant waltz. Francesca was mildly irritated to find she was the only one save for Christine and the viscount not wearing black, white and gold. Why hadn't she asked Auntie Carlotta for advice? Oh well. All those little thoughts vanished in an instant as she stood there, drinking in the color, the light, the sound.

One wonderful feature of a masked ball is that, with everyone's face hidden, rivalries and enmity and petty snobbery take a night off. Everyone there is not focused on figuring out who their dance partner is, they just want to have a good time. And so, no matter who you are at all other times, on the night of a masquerade, you can be the belle of the ball, the center of any room.

Such was the case for Francesca. She knew everyone she danced with that night was either some patronizing aristocrat who any other day would look down at her with oily condescension, or a member of the opera company who had slighted her or alienated her or simply acted unfriendly before, but tonight she didn't care. No, not tonight, this wonderful, glorious night! If only Erik could see it, she thought, until she remembered she had decided not to think about him.

Meanwhile, Carlotta and Piangi were making their entrance, flanked by the managers in ridiculous animal costumes, and Erik was waiting to make his entrance. He had prepared a whole speech, about duty and affection, to tell Christine when he saw her. He had even brought a copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_, maybe as a sort of peace offering. Then he and Christine would exit through the mirror maze, because a dramatic exit was always his style. It was an excellent plan, he told himself, even if his heart wasn't really in it. He steadied himself and entered.

It was at that moment that Francesca was mid-turn in the dance when her eyes caught on a handsome man at the top of the stairs dressed all in scarlet. Finally, she smiled to herself, someone else who didn't know to wear black, white and gold only. But then she looked for another moment longer and her breath caught, unnoticed by her dance partner. It couldn't be. But it was. It was him.

Erik, meanwhile, was scanning the room for Christine, and when he saw her, he was shocked. She was- she was with the milky viscount! The fool, the one he had always mocked, always felt such contempt, nearly pity, for! She had a ring on a chain around her neck! He had known that ridiculous man was interested in Christine, but he never dreamed it was mutual! She was a great soprano, and the viscount thought musical scales could be found on musical fish! He felt a flash of anger but more than that it was shock, pure and simple. But before he had time to react, he noticed a lovely young woman was looking at him. Wearing a red dress and a butterfly mask.

Their eyes met.

For a moment they just stood there, eyes locked, speechless. But Erik, phantom through and through, suddenly headed over, handing his script to a footman for safekeeping, and was at her side, asking her partner, "May I cut in?"

"Oh, certainly sir," the man said, and then Francesca had to steel herself not to swoon, he was back, his hand was on her waist, remember not to swoon, you weren't even going to think of him tonight! And Erik chastised himself on his way down the steps for completely abandoning the plan but what did it matter? She was there.

It was Francesca who spoke first. "Welcome back," she said with a shy smile.

"I'm glad to be back," Erik said, tracing a long slender finger along the edge of her mask, and for a moment they just stood there, smiling the same smile, one that said, _You're here, I'm here, I love you, I always have._

The guests at the masked ball that evening were not a very observant bunch. They didn't even notice the servants and stagehands managing to steal two cases of champagne. But if they had been more observant, they might have seen a couple in red, dancing with each other all night, talking and smiling and laughing, and occasionally glancing around the room with a look as if they suspected some celestial force had arranged this whole night, so that they might have a chance to talk and laugh and dance in that great glistening ballroom, at that magnificent masquerade. And who knows, maybe they were right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Don't hate me for taking so long on this. Please? With a mask on top? And tickets to the new Broadway Phantom sequel? Well, at any rate, here's the chapter:**

Erik and Francesca were so caught up in the dance that they hardly noticed the commotion starting up at the top of the stairs.

"Do you think it's from him?"

"Well, it does say 'by O. G.' at the top."

"Is it some sort of message?"

"And I thought we had gotten rid of him . . ."

"Quiet, Andre, remember all the free publicity!" Firman, quickly turning to the crowd, started them all up again with, "I believe this is the Opera Ghost's latest in a series of threats Monsieur Andre and myself have been receiving. It appears he has now decided to make his demands public."

"Ridiculous . . ." muttered Carlotta, upset that no one was looking at her, as she signaled for Piangi to grab her muff on their way out.

"It would appear," Francesca stated; she and Erik were now the only ones still on the dance floor, "that the Phantom of the Opera strikes again. Had you heard?" She kept her voice measured, hiding a sudden flash of anxiety that he had only come here as part of some Phantom thing, and not because of her. _I'll kill him,_ she thought, suddenly feeling a tremor of Carlotta-style rage. _If I'm just part of another Phantom setup, and he is either toying with my heart or as clueless as the viscount, I may actually kill him. No, I couldn't; killing him would break my heart even further, whatever the case is._

She needn't have worried. Erik had been looking at her with a sort of steady affection, only coming out of the trance when she spoke. "What?" he asked; then he remembered the script. "_Merde,"_ he muttered. "I'm sorry about that; I wrote an opera, and brought it here tonight, and apparently your dear associates found the script. I wrote a part for you," he added, blushing adorably.

Francesca felt a crashing wave of relief, followed directly by some distinctly improper desires as she heard about the part he had written for her, and saw his blush. "So what now?" she asked, grinning.

Erik's face split into a wicked smile. "Let's get out of here," he said. "But first, I'd hate to disappoint our audience. If you'd be so kind, mademoiselle?" he slipped his arm around Francesca's waist, whispered a few details into her ear, and the show began.

"My kind public," he said in the middle of the dance floor, voice deadly soft and sinister; everyone looked shocked that he had managed to slip in unnoticed; Raoul's incredulous expression set Francesca giggling despite her trying to maintain suitable dramatic tension. "I am touched that you've taken such interest in my humble opera. Yet you seem surprised. Did you think I had left you? Never, friends, never. Well," he glanced at Francesca, "almost never. Christine, I hear congratulations on your engagement are in order. But I'm afraid that I must run, along with this lovely young woman," he paused to give Francesca a slightly predatory smile; she tried to maintain the half-haughty, half-frightened look she thought a mysterious opera ghost's mistress-or-possibly-kidnapped-love might have. Erik bowed deeply, and Francesca swept into a low curtsy. Then, with a burst of flame and a puff of smoke, they were gone.

Or so it appeared. Francesca gasped slightly at the drop through the trapdoor; even though Erik had warned her, it was still a rush. And the maze of mirrors weren't exactly reassuring. She gripped Erik's arm a little tighter. "So where are we going?"

Erik scolded himself inwardly; of course she was nervous, the mirror maze was melodramatic to say the least. But they were on their way out of it. "My home," he said with a smile.

The Phantom's lair . . . Francesca supposed she should have seen it coming, but she hadn't, and she always had been curious. She shivered.

Erik knew it would be entirely inappropriate to show how relieved he was, but he couldn't suppress a smile as Francesca started down the path, asking him how he had managed to install all the mirrors. He answered, telling her all about signing them in under Firman's name as stage props, hearing her laugh, and thinking how Christine would never even have thought to ask. Then they came to the boat, and they were both quiet. Not singing or swooning about or anything, just . . . enjoying each other's company.

They got to the lair and Francesca, seldom at a loss for words, was . . . dazzled. All of this, the cave, the boat, the candles, it was like magic or something, shimmering and lovely, bright and dark. And somehow still real. Still real.

Erik pulled her out of the boat, humming under his breath. _Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation . . . _

Francesca felt his hands on her shoulders, traveling down her arms to rest on her waist and somehow, through the haze of delicious feeling, thought something. She almost laughed as she said, "Thank you."

She was almost as startled as Erik, who had also given up to the dance that was that night, to hear herself speak. "For what?" he asked.

"For not breaking my heart," she blurted out. He still looked puzzled so, even though she was a little embarrassed- Why did you have to go and mention that ridiculous old idea of yours at a time like this? she asked herself, accent a little thicker in the mental scolding- she went on. In for a penny, in for a pound, "Well," she spoke in a rush, "I always sort of thought that when I fell in love, it would end up, at least for a while, breaking my heart. And you didn't. So . . . thank you. Thank you, even if you . . . are not as in love with me as I am with you, thank you for being kind to me and not breaking my heart." There. And she had even found the courage to voice her fear- that he was fond of her, of course, but more in a Phantom-and-assistant way.

Erik was incredulous. He didn't know where to start. But there was one thing that needed to clear up. "Not as in love with you?" he took her hands in his and took a deep breath. "What exactly do you mean?"

Was he asking what she thought he was? He couldn't be, but . . . "Erik, you know I love you, right? I'm absolutely mad about you, and I have been for the longest time. I know I'm no great soprano, just a chorus girl with a temper, but I love you, I do."

She said it! Erik was triumphant. He grabbed her by the waist and twirled her once, both of them laughing. "Francesca," he set her down, "I completely, utterly, and absolutely love you, and always remember that." He held her hands and kissed them each once. "And I promise you, Francesca Bretzini, that I will never, ever break your heart."

Not all love stories are tortured. Not all are full of twists and turns and drama. Some are, in fact many are, but sometimes, just sometimes, they just . . . work. Sometimes that really is enough, even for a mysterious phantom and a dramatic chorus girl in the infamous Paris Opera Populaire. But, as they kissed that night, far and away the deepest, most passionate, and also _happiest_ kiss either had ever had, they were not thinking it was enough. Rather, they were each thinking something like, I'm so lucky. So lucky to be here, so lucky to be loved. I'm so lucky.


End file.
